Snubbed

At Mary’s feet I wept,

Eyes glistening with the most amorous of intentions.

She played me a song,

About how she wanted to be with me.

But, firmly, she said nothing, did nothing,

Reciprocated nothing.

She loved my song,

But would not have the singer.

Forsooth, she cared about what others thought.

And I was merely infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things.

She cast her flaring deprecating glance at me,

Puckered her enamoring Carmine lips,

Disallowingly raised her chin,

Grabbed her bag and moved along.

When I hear the song I think of her,

I wonder if she ever thinks of me.

I rarely think of her.

If it weren’t for the song I wouldn’t think of her at all.

Bet she never thinks me

Because who else could sing my song?

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